Summer's Gone Now
by quotient
Summary: It's June when Sam figures out how to save Dean from his deal.  Prequel to Painted Ponies.  Spoilers AHBL2


Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue

**Summer's Gone Now**

_Sixteen springs and sixteen summer's gone now_

_Cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town_

_And they tell him,_

_Take your time it won't be long now_

_Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down _

--The Circle Game, Joni Mitchell

Sometimes, Sam dreams about a girl drowning in the middle of a lake. He can see her arms grappling with the air as she tries to stay afloat. There's no one else around, just Sam on the lakeshore and her slowly dying.

He can't move.

When he wakes up, he thinks he can still hear her screaming, but it's usually just traffic on the highway.

* * *

It's June when Sam figures out how to save Dean from his deal. He opens his eyes to sunlight streaming in through the window with a smile on his face.

Dean buys him strawberries later. It's too early for them but they're surprisingly ripe. When he bites into one, juice bursts out, spills down his chin and over his hands like blood.

Dean says, "Don't spill on the upholstery, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam smiles with his mouth full. He wipes his hands on his jeans.

* * *

They don't fight as much. It's got nothing to do with the limited time they have left. There's peace to this thing between them. They drive without looking back. Dean, Sam knows, is done with past, present, future. He's handed it away to Sam because he doesn't need it anymore, doesn't want it.

Less than one year left, Sam thinks. He watches his brother sleep. Dad used to do the same thing, sometimes, he knows. He's never been a heavy sleeper and the feeling of being watched was always too much to ignore. Dean's the same way. These days it's like his brother doesn't care. Sam supposes it's because there's nothing left to look out for. The demon's dead, Sam's safe, and Dean's time will be up soon enough.

Dean never mentioned their father's nightly vigilance. It was just one more thing Dean kept quiet for some secret reason only he knew, like everything else in his life. In truth, though, Sam suspects that his brother didn't tell him because he figured Sam already knew. To Dean, it was one more implicit occurrence. Family watched out for each other, that was just how the world worked.

Those nights Dad watched them and Sam woke up, his father would lay his hand gently on Sam's forehead and tell him to go back to sleep. He wonders if Dad said the same thing to Dean, but asking the question would be a waste because if his brother wanted him to know, Sam would have known years ago.

* * *

At a bar in Austin, Texas, a man asks, "What would you do if you could do one thing over?" His breath smells like whiskey, and his eyes are so bloodshot that they almost look inhuman.

Sam holds his beer a quarter of an inch from his lips, pauses. The sound of billiard balls is louder than the inane chatter. They clatter together like artificial thunder.

"Don't know," Sam answers even though the drunk has already turned away. "But it's a good question."

Summer fades quickly into autumn. It's a brutal season, with dark skies and strong winds that make people hide their face. Sam gets what he needs at Bobby's while Dean tinkers out back among the metal skeletons of cars.

"He likes it here." He rolls the beer bottle between his hands, watching it closely.

Dean always had a thing for hands-on work. He used to help Sam with school projects, hands over Sam's, teaching him to put pieces together. Sam can remember the way his brother's calluses felt on his skin, rough and warm. They've been built up since childhood on guns and shovels.

"Always has," Bobby agrees.

Sam lets out a long breath that isn't a sigh. "Dad used to say he was a natural."

"Did he now?"

Sam was a natural, too. In books and papers; research in the library. And he'd followed that all the way to Stanford and Jess. Dean could have followed his abilities, as well. There were other opportunities out there, things that didn't involve dealing with death day in, day out.

Dean comes in, a line of grease smeared across his face. He's smiling. "She's running. Like a dream."

* * *

Winter doesn't stop them. Sam sits in the passenger seat listening to the rhythmic beat of rock and roll drums turn into the steady ticking of a clock. Dean starts getting these strange looks on his face and his hands hold the steering wheel, tight, tighter, tightest, until the knuckles turn white.

It's not surprising. Sam doubts there's anybody in the world that could be completely at ease with the idea of going to Hell.

They hunt dressed in winter coats, their gloves have the tops of the fingers cut off for better grip on the weapons. Dean's breath puffs out in white clouds that make it look like he's smoking. Sam figures he looks the same. Still, they spend their February in Maine making snow angels and having snowball fights.

"I love snow," Dean says, lying on the ground and staring into the gray sky.

Sam nods and shoves a handful of snow into his brother's face.

* * *

The crossroads looks the same. At this late hour, it's deserted. They pull out their supplies: two bed rolls and a little camping stove. Funny that this is how Dean wants to spend his last night on earth, camped on the still cold earth under the stars. It's been raining. The bedrolls are soaked through before they've even got them lain flat.

Dean makes the dinner, says, "Remember when Dad used to take us camping?"

"Yeah. We hated it. Complained the whole time."

"We always came back early because of that."

Sam smiles, "I don't think Dad was very impressed. On the ride back he wouldn't let us talk. The whole thing would be in--"

"Silence," Dean finishes for him with a laugh. "Yeah." He pauses. "He stopped trying after a while."

"How old were we?"

"I think it was the year I turned thirteen."

They contemplate that for a bit in silence. Sam watches his brother stir the food in the pot. He fingers the pills in his pocket thinking, _what would you do if could do one thing over?_

"Watch the food?" Dean says suddenly. "I gotta take a piss."

He thinks Dean should see this coming.

When his brother comes back, sits down cross-legged on the ground, he has a smile on his face so wide that Sam can see his teeth in the dark. There's this brief, painful understanding of everything. This is where Dean wants to be. Right here, sitting beside Sam, waiting to die because, for whatever those strange dark secret reasons are, he believes this is how things are _supposed_ to be.

The insight burns Sam's eyes, makes him feel cold in the pit of his stomach. There's something unbelievably sad in the realization. He holds out Dean's portion of their dinner, watches Dean take it. The pills will knock him out for hours. More than enough time for Sam to do what needs to be done.

By the time the drugs start taking effect, they're both settled in for the night. Dean's having trouble keeping his eyes open. He lies on his side facing Sam, says, "I don't regret it."

Sam smiles, "Neither do I."

Dean's too doped up to know what that really means.

* * *

Sometimes, Sam dreams about a girl drowning in the middle of a lake. He can't save her, just like he couldn't save Jess, or Andy, or Ava and the others. One failure after another, so many prices he's paid over the years.

He pushes himself out of his bedroll, sits cross-legged and watches the sky, pretending he'll still be here when the sun creeps up over the horizon. Beside him, Dean sleeps on, comfortably unaware.


End file.
